Fawlty Towers  The Documentary
by Hamfast Gamgee
Summary: It's a busy weekend for Basil.  He has to deal with staff-shortage, the World Cup and a rather annoying film crew making a documentary about the place. Please R and R Thanks to Iggy for Beatering.
1. Chapter 1

A busy weekend, part one

It's shaping up to be a busy weekend for Basil Fawlty. It's the height of the mmer season in Torquay. The World Cup is on. He is short-staffed as his new waiter is on holiday in Cyprus and he is too stingy to hire a temp replacement. 'These things happen, we'll do it ourselves!' A rather annoying film crew has arrived to make a documentary about the hotel and they insist upon turning every problem into a major crisis, as is their wont. I should say that the opinions expressed here are mostly those of Basil Fawlty and not my own!

The place is a hotel: Fawlty Towers, or "Floating Turds" as someone had rather unkindly written on the sign outside. Inside, a tall, thin hotelier, Basil Fawlty, was on his own at reception dealing with a sudden glut of customers. 'So, that's a bedroom for two, breakfast for two nights, Mr and Mrs Smith, fine!' Basil gave a charming smile as he filled out a form. 'Sign here please.'

But his next guest he was slightly less pleasant too. 'So you want a double room? What, a single one? Single? They are a bit scarce at the moment. That puts me out, that does. Are you married?'

'No, not at all!'

'Have you ever thought of it?' Basil snapped.

'Basil,' his wife Sybil whispered sharply in his ear.

'Oh, all right. Fine Sybil, over to you!' Basil smiled and moved quickly to the dining room. Basil looked around. Manuel was frantically taking orders from two tables at once and mixing them up terribly.

'Que?'

'Fish!' the exasperated man yelled.

'Dish, si,' Manuel said, snatching a dirty plate Polly was taking to the kitchen and placing it in front of the man.

'Waiter!' the woman at the other table said. 'Where is my soup?'

'Que?' Manuel said.

Meanwhile Polly was taking the dirty plate from the man at the other table and apologizing. 'Your fish will be out shortly.' On her way out of the room she grabbed Manuel by the ear with her free hand and dragged him with her.

'Don't let that stupid git back in here until he learns English,' Basil called after her. 'Or until he learns Italian, just don't let him back in here,' he grumbled under his breath.

He cast a gimlet eye on a table of England fans making noise at a table across the room. They were well-behaved otherwise, but Basil sometimes missed the times when one 'dressed for dinner.'

'Excuse me,' said a guest.

'Yes, what is it?' Basil replied.

'I'm sorry, we have been waiting a while for our order. Could you take it please?'

'Could I take your order? Well, I have been a bit busy. I was up at 7:00. I had to organise reception as I am the only one who does any work around here. I had to go to the butcher for a delivery of bacon. I had to clean the living room by myself, re-paint our sign as some idiot thought it highly amusing to re-arrange the letters, shout at Manuel, give Polly jobs to do, so I have only had one break and quite frankly you can stick your order were the sun doesn't shine,'

This is what Basil thought. What he actually said was, if slightly tight-lipped, 'So sorry for your delay, how may I help?' Though the request turned out to be a simple one.

'So, what's the score going to be, Basil, 3-0 to England?' cried one with quite illogical optimism. The next day, England were facing Germany in the World Cup and for some unknown reason everyone thought England would win. This optimism was catching!

'2-1 to England,'

'2-0,' said another lad.

Basil gave them a withering look and went back to reception, where he met another couple trying to register. After a few pleasantries a woman asked, 'One thing, we have just been over the channel to Europe on holiday we have lots of Euros, do you mind if we pay in that currency?' Basil's face looked at her in horror. Basil's opinions on all things Europe and the EU made the average Daily Mail writer look moderate.

'Could you pay by card? There is a cash machine nearby,' suggested Basil hopefully.

'Well, we could, but it is a mile there and back. Euros would be more convenient.'

Basil disappeared for a few moments. Over the speakers came the glorious sounds of Rule Britannia. Basil came rushing back. He pointed at a picture of Winston Churchill, his hands shaking and his neck looking like its veins were about to burst.

'Who's that?' cried he at the picture.

'Winston Churchill, obviously,'

'And what is this music?'

'Very patriotic stuff, but the point is?' the man laughed.

Basil pulled himself to all of his considerable height and cried, 'In1940 we stood alone. Against the might of the Hun. Nation after Nation fell and it would have been more "convenient" for us to surrender, wouldn't it? But is that what Churchill did? No! Was it convenient for those Spitfire pilots to run sorties against the Luftwaffe? I don't think so.

'Basil.'

'Did Henry V say it was convenient to surrender at Agincourt? No. Did Francis Drake think it convenient to fight the Armada? Maybe not. Was it convenient to fight Napoleon's might in 1815? I don't think so. Neither do I suppose that the charge of the light brigade was done for the cavalries personal comfort. But now we have to be in Europe because apparently we cannot manage our own affairs by ourselves without help and this generation...'

'BASIL!'

'Wouldn't bother to find its arse with both hands if it wasn't convenient. We had an Empire where the sun didn't set and which covered the globe. But now we have scarce control over even our own currency thanks to French, German, Italian or even Belgium. They have found themselves something to do at last! Eurocrats! And I for one say...'

'BASIL!' Sybil snapped at her husband and dragged him away. Well the English might have stood alone and halted the march of the Nazi legions, not Basil obviously. For all his bold talk he would have run a hundred miles away from any war that had come close, but an angry Sybil Fawlty was far too much. 'They are staying for two weeks, paying ?1000 and are very generous and can give us a good tip!'

Basil paused for thought. He was in a dilemma! His patriotic feelings as opposed to hard cash. In the end, hard cash won. 'Oh, very well, then!' he crumpled like the Maginot line and it was therefore fortunate for him that those guests laughed at his comments in good humour rather than being offended.

The Major had heard the entire exchange. 'I think this just about sums up international finance!' said he shaking his old head a little sadly.

Then Basil bumped into just about the last thing he expected to see, apart from satisfied customers. A TV camera! Basil looked at the thing. Why was someone filming here? 'Hello!' said a man next to him in a charming old-school manner. He looked at Basil with a broad grin and clapped him on the shoulder.

'Yes, can I help?' asked Basil in irritation.

But the man grinned further. 'Come now, you know who I am!'

'Can't say I do!'

The man laughed. He was so conceited that he couldn't get his head around the concept of someone not knowing who he was. 'Very funny. But I'm sure you know me, TV producer, chatshow host, BBC representative Steven Norty! I have 5 million followers on Chatter don't you know? Anyway we have come to film an average day at Fawlty Towers for our daytime afternoon slot on Channel 5.'

'Channel 5? Thank God. In that case no-one will be watching!' Basil muttered, with some accuracy as it happened.

'Ooh! It's Steven Norty, we'll be on TV!' squealed Sybil, going quite weak-kneed at the prospect. It was a slight weakness of Sybil that she did so love every soap or reality TV doc or cooking program that the TV channels could throw at her. 'Come on Basil, smile! You're on TV! This is Steven Norty. He has 5 million followers on Chatter!' Chatter was a website where people were encouraged to follow others brief Chats.

'Maybe, but 4,999,999 of them are only doing so to see what a prat he is!'

'Basil!'

'Oh all right but, did we really invite him here? I don't remember doing so.'

'Oh, I handled all the details. It was so exciting!' Sybil explained, but this time it was Basil's turn to give Sybil a poisonous look.

His mood wasn't improved by Polly buckling her knees at the sight of the celebrity.

'Steven Norty! Oh my God!'

'Haven't you got something to do, Polly?'

Or Terry, the hotel's cook. 'That's Steven Norty that is!'

'I am aware, thank you, Terry.' Basil said snidely

'I'll have to get enthusiastic about chopping those onions!' Terry exclaimed.

Basil raised his eyebrows. Terry was a good cook but the idea of him being enthusiastic about his cooking was a new concept. Maybe Steven Norty and his film crew coming might have some good effects. He buckled as Polly poked him in the ribs. 'That might be a good move as Tracy, our second cook, is on holiday and you haven't found a replacement.'

'Oh, it's only for a fortnight, we'll manage!' Basil waved Polly away.

'It will be tricky though,' argued Sybil.

'Have we arrived at a time of major crisis in the affairs of Fawlty Towers?' asked Steven Norty with a hopeful expression on his face. A bit like vultures, docusoaps do so revel in people's misfortunes, and if they can't find them they will make them up. He put his arm around Sybil's and Basil's shoulders. Curiously, Steven was very tall and one of the few people that could look down upon Basil.

'No, no it's a trivial matter, we can cope!' snapped Basil.

'I'm not so sure,' Sybil countered.

'Really?' said Mr. Norty, making a mark in his notebook.

Basil sighed and made his way to the hotel bar, serving himself a much needed stiff drink. He saw the England fans were now chatting to the Major. 'How will we get on Major?' they asked.

'As long as Greavesies fit we'll be fine!' informed he, to a mixture of puzzlement and amusement. The Major's knowledge of football anytime in the last 50 years was a little hazy and some of those England fans had never heard of Jimmy Greaves, a dinosaur from the age before even satellite they thought.

Then the guest who had annoyed Basil by having the cheek to be single sat on the barstool next to the Major. 'All right,' said he with a thumbs up and the Major nodded back. The guest, Nathan, nudged the major. 'I have a few days off which I intend to spend in this lovely seaside town. But I feel lucky. Are there any nice young ladies staying here?'

'You are in luck, young man! There are a couple of young women here next door.

'Here they are and they are both available.'

Nathan looked around with a wide, hopeful smile.

'Good evening, young man!'

'Good evening!' replied Miss Tibbs and Miss Tubs. As Nathan didn't fancy sex with women old enough to be his mother, his hopes of an exotic night were dashed.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Manuel, the little Spanish waiter, was chatting with the football fans. Against some expectations he was a bit of a football expert. He came from Barcelona after all! And on the subject he could, strangely speak lyrically in English. 'No, de problem with England is you have no team. You are all individuals, you cannot stroke de ball around; you have no good pissing,'

'Eh?' one of the lads said.

'Oh, sorry, passing! But you have no structure. You should play 4-4-2, si, that is the English way, but your midfield needs to be connected. With the defence, attack, each other!' Then Manuel listed a number of players he thought the England team should contain. One major player he didn't name.

'You have no Terry Shinner in that team,' someone mentioned, referring to a player who, while being paid around Ł100,000 per week for his club, and having played many games for England, hadn't actually done a great deal for England against anyone decent.

'Si, what he actually done for England?'

This direct question gave the lads pause for thought. Some scratched their heads. 'Scored twice against Slovakia?' one suggested. Manuel tutted and departed.

The next morning Basil was up bright and early. So were most of his guests, around thirty in all, and by 8:00 there was a dining-room full of people, all craving attention. Basil had had enough. He took on a couple of big men in front of him, and with a jab and a quick high kick both were floored. The next guest confronted Basil with a knife, but Basil swiped it out of his hand and knocked him and his wife out with a chair. Guest after guest fell to Basil's fury. A few of the football fans held out.

'Surrender!' bellowed Basil.

'Never!' cried they.

'Fine by me!' replied Mr. Fawlty and swiped, jabbed punched or gouged them to oblivion. One family of four tried to flee. But they reckoned without Polly. She gave a primaeval scream, floored the mother with a cup, picked up the two children and threw them so high they went over the hotel roof, then she kicked the father hard in the groin.

She and Basil clasped hands in triumph. 'This is all very amusing, but shouldn't we get back to serving the guests?' she said. Basil sighed and agreed. Slaughtering his guests had only been a delicious fantasy in his head. In the real world he was just starting to serve the second table.

Although after a while he was tempted to deliver some of this treatment to Mr. Norty, TV personality. The man was interfering with the work constantly. 'Oh, Sybil, this guest wanted extra bacon with his breakfast,' Basil said. Steven Norty stepped in.

'What a bombshell this must be for you!' How to you cope with such a dramatic change and with such inconsiderate and demanding guests?'

'There's no dramatic change in someone wanting a bit extra,' said Terry.

'You are showing fighting spirit, this is true, but having to re-write virtually an entirely new recipe must increase your stress levels for such a busy day.'

Terry mistakenly believed that Mr. Norty was being sympathetic rather than just stirring up trouble for the sake of it to boost his documentaries ratings. 'I suppose it was a bit tricky,' he answered, to Mr. Norty's delight.

Mr. Norty interviewed a couple of guests. 'So, how was your breakfast?'

'Fine!'

'I noticed you wanted extra bacon. Was there a breakdown in the capability of the hotel staff in managing such a reasonable request.'

'No, I just decided on having a bit extra.'

'Perfectly reasonable, as I said, but the management showed a distinct lack of responsiveness to changing circumstances did they not? You must have been disappointed at the speed of their response. Thirty minutes I believe that I counted it.'

'I think it was ten,' laughed the guest, but they then began to talk amongst themselves.

'40 minutes to make a change, well, well.' Mr. Norty made a note in his book.

He then noticed that Basil was taking a quiet cigarette outside looking with disgust at the "Please smoke outside" sign, thinking of the times when he had started in this profession that one could smoke anywhere one liked. That was the EU and its rules for you. But he hadn't noticed any improvement in society since. 'STOP TAKING A CIGARETTE BASIL, THERE ARE GUESTS TO BE SERVED!' screamed his wife. Actually, she managed to say it with a look so as not to startle the guests but Basil knew exactly what she was saying, and Steven Norty again made a note, thinking that any potential for an impending argument would make good TV.

Later that morning, Norty was chatting with a few of the hotel staff, showing slides about his previous documentary in Africa. 'Now this was me in the African rainforests, Ghana I believe! Oh, or was it Zambia or somewhere like that? Or was it actually the Congo? Never mind, the important point is that there are shots of me wearing exquisite shorts and shirts, looking good in an exotic location, see!'

'I saw that you were looking at endangered bats,' Sybil said.

Yes indeed, and here we have another shot of me next to some wide lake or another. I had a nice Garibaldi shirt on there, cost me Ł100 you know! That was fortunate for those gibbons!'

'Bats!' said Sybil a little sharply. She was beginning to reverse her opinion on the self-centered Steven Norty.

'Then there was that time I was host of the quiz show "Get the Right Implement".' He was referring to a show that was basically scissors, paper, stone, expanded with ads and very slow talking about the contestants fascinating lives to make it an hour long program in the late afternoon. 'Good one that was. This is a picture of me in the detective series "Killer Catcher" and here is one of me as a guest appearance in "Dr Who" exchanging witty banter with David Tennant. Can't say I remember what the plotline was about, however, some aliens trying to destroy Earth I think! And here is me advertising Chatter. I have 5 million followers there don't you know, fluffykins.'

'You do like to talk about yourself a lot,' suggested Polly.

'Well, he _is_ famous Polly, a celebrity. He's just about the most famous person we've ever had in this hotel. Can anyone else think of anyone more famous?'

Basil looked around thoughtfully. He scratched his chin. Then shrugged his shoulders. 'No, can't think of anyone,' he declared.

'So you like me really!' said Norty with a smug smile.

'Not really. I can remember the days when you were funny!' snapped Basil, and walked off. Straight into the football fans who were starting their drinking early. 'Come on Basil, what's it gonna be, you're a patriotic man, 2-0 to England surely!'

Basil sighed. It was true that he was a patriotic man but he wasn't a football fan in particular. Though with his limited knowledge he did know that England hadn't done much in the past few years. In fact, their over-paid players seemed to spend as much time in the front pages for their lurid love lives than in the sports section. He had seen snatches of the last few German matches and they seemed a young talented team at least.

'I say 4-1 to Germany,' predicted he. Such an odd prediction for an Englishman took the lads back a bit.

'Um...' said one, but Mr and Mrs Smith interjected.

Mr. Smith put his arms around Basil. 'Don't worry about his one, he's a dinosaur. He doesn't even support the EU!' and there was much laughter.

'Stop sniggering you!' he snapped at Polly. 'Well I don't. The EU is an organisation which is a vast Eurocratic waste of money. You remember when we had those Eurocrats visiting a while back?' Basil was referring to a time a couple of months ago when some Eurocrats had decided to stay at the hotel a little, to his annoyance but not Sybil's.

'Yes, they were very generous!' said Sybil.

'One gave me a lovely, large tip!' smiled Polly.

'Yes, I saw, that Italian could have swarmed for Italy!'

'I only gave good service!' Polly declared.

'I bet. I wouldn't like to think of what that might have entailed. He was older than your father, not that that bothered him much. Anyway, the point is they were on Euro expense account. And they bought the most expensive things they could, rooms, champagne, food, service. Polly's affections. Yes, Sybil, that's good for us, but was it really necessary, and at Taxpayers expense! People moan about MPs.'

'Bastards!' said Polly and Sybil together. The MPs expenses scandal not been forgotten.

'Exactly, but they are nothing compared with the Euros.'

'Never mind, Basil, get on with the meals for later,' retorted his wife.

Basil calmed down and moved away. Before he entered the kitchen he bumped into Nathan. Nathan was a football fan but an unusually sensitive and intelligent one! Though he didn't get everything right, far from it. 'Interesting thought you had on the football back there. If you believe that..'

'Oh, those fans were annoying me, I just said something unexpected.'

'All right, but if you do, I've just had a look at the odds. Everyone's backing England to win, you can get good value at the bookies on a large German win!' suggested Nathan, using the desire to make money over cheap patriotic thoughts. Similar to Basil in some ways.

Basil smiled. 'Betting! It was a pleasure of mine, but Sybil soon put a stop to it. On the spurious grounds that I ran up a debt of thousands. Mind... who wears the trousers in this relationship?' Basil had the good grace to wince at this thought and fortunately for him he didn't say it out loud in Sybil's presence! Still, whatever the football, or indeed TV teams, were doing, the day looked like it would be busy for him.

End of Chapter two...


	3. Chapter 3

Fawlty Towers the Documentary, final part

Basil was now busy with the Sunday rush. He needed someone to go to the bookies for him. Ah, there was Polly! 'Polly my dear, Sybil wants someone to pop to the local store to buy more vegetables. Could you do this, and whilst you are out,' Basil's voice lowered to a low whisper of conspiracy, 'Just put a tenner on Germany to win 4-1 against England!'

'Is that likely?' asked Polly, who, whilst being a sensible girl, as a typical member of the fairer sex knew little about the noble game of football. Although, once a top Premier League team had visited the hotel and Polly got to know more intimate physical details about them than most of the male fans! But never mind. 'Why can't you send Manuel?' Polly asked.

'No way, not after the mess that idiot made last time.'

'He did get the right horse!'

'The right horse yes, but the wrong race.'

'An easy mistake to make.'

'The wrong day?'

'Besides, he isn't an idiot, he just doesn't totally understand English. I'd like to see how smart you would be in a hotel in Spain.'

'Whatever. But could you just do this? Don't tell Sybil and keep the change.' Polly smiled and went to do this task. As the day's preparations for lunch went by, with the addition of a football special - burger and chips with Italian dressing - as Basil called it; odd how Basil could get quite European when it came to making his menus up market as he saw it!

'It's only coleslaw!' Terry pointed out.

Stephen Norty was making a pest of himself, as usual, trying to stir up trouble whilst making it look like he was sympathetic. 'You are showing good bulldog British spirit. But how can this continue with the crisis in the kitchen, chronic staff shortages, unreasonable guests, marital strife, after that, after all of that you can still continue as things are normal? Just like the Blitz, eh?' commented he.

'Norty, for the last time there is no crisis. And what marital strife?'

'I think she means your normal marital state. I'm beginning to agree with you over Mr. Norty now that I meet him. Oh, here's your betting slip.'

'Thank you.' Basil grinned like a Cheshire cat. 'I think I might enjoy the game after all!'

Time moved until the time of the big match finally arrived. Excitement was intense. Well, not for everyone perhaps. Sybil was nattering on her mobile phone. In Basil's opinion the invention of the mobile phone had the side effect of giving Sybil the ability to talk rubbish anywhere. 'Oh, yes. Oh, no. Oh, he is! Yes, yes you can, he's such a darling. No, he's not. He's up to something, as usual. I am. I'm not!' Sybil waffled on happily to some unknown person. Though whilst doing so Sybil managed to serve not one, not two, but three customers simultaneously behind the bar without once letting go of her phone. Basil had to be impressed by such an amazing feat of dexterity by his wife!

Who had shown more understanding of technology than Manuel did. He was looking in puzzlement at a credit card machine someone had given back to him to pay a bill. To everyone's amazement Manuel put it to his ear. 'Allo, allo!' he said and randomly pressed some digits. 'I am sorry, Senor, your phone ees not working. I think it ees mute!' Before total chaos reigned in the bar, Basil saw what was happening and snatched the device from Manuel's hand.

'You dago twat, this is not a mobile phone! You give it to the customer whilst he enters his secret number to prevent card fraud. I'm so sorry! he said to the customer who was staring at him in stunned silence.'

'What ees your number?' Manuel asked the customer.

Pointing to Polly to take over, Basil dragged Manuel away. 'Manuel what do I mean by secret? That no one knows it!' Basil glared at Manuel but he stared at Basil uncomprehendingly, a look of confusion on his face.

'Fine, let me show you another English phrase. This hand…'

'Si.'

'That face,' growled Basil.

'Que?' replied Manuel, who always walked into these things.

'This slap.'

'Ahhhahhahhaah!'

Now the football was starting. Basil was watching the game on and off, quietly, around the back. 'Two World Wars and one World Cup,' chanted the fans, ignoring the fact that virtually every encounter in the memory of anyone under 60 had actually gone Germany's way.

A goal for Germany dampened the chanting. And a second one. Basil clenched his fists and grinned to himself. Then there was one for England 2-1. Then another for England. Well, the ball had clearly crossed the line, anyone could see. Basil sighed. So much for that. With no more interest in the game Basil went outside to trim the hedge.

'Might as well destroy this!' he thought and began ripping up the betting slip.

'Mister Fawlty, Mister Fawlty, what you doing?' cried Manuel running outside. 'Mister Fawlty stop!' the little Spaniard grabbed Basil's hand. But it was too late. Basil had torn up the slip and was angrily throwing it in the rubbish bin before turning to Manuel. 'But Mister Fawlty, you win!' cried Manuel.

'Manuel, I know you sometimes find simple math difficult. Didn't you once try to boil water at 38 degrees? But even you can understand that if I put on a bet for 4-1 I am not going to get much money if both teams score twice, now am I?' said Basil gritting his teeth at his employee, looking at him, hands on hips, thinking that Manuel was being more confusing than normal.

'But that score!'

'What are you talking about? I clearly saw England score twice.'

'Si! You see, I see everyone see, even German fans see. But referee and referee assistant they no see.'

'What?' said Basil and Manuel told him what had happened, that the ball that was clear to everyone had crossed the line, had, of course, been missed by the two people that counted most. The score was 4-1, Basil would have won his bet. These things do seem to happen to England a lot.

Well, England players might be incompetent when it really matters. The fans might not have much of an idea of what will really happen in an England game. But honestly, all of this pales into insignificance in comparison with the sheer breath-taking incompetence of various officials in charge of British teams in various sporting fixtures when it matters over the years.

One would think that after a history of these things, the Henry handball a few months previous in the play-off between France and Ireland were he handled the ball, not once, but twice, that referees might sometimes believe British sides of events occasionally. But they always refuse to. Everything from Maradona handling the ball to Beckham's sending off to the last person not been sent off for a professional foul. Yep, all against England. Twice British and Irish teams have had a personal apology from Sepp Blatter for official's mistakes. Fat lot of good that is! Why won't officials simply give British teams a fair crack of the whip?

Anyway, Basil wasn't that pleased with the result, nor his reactions. Later, the Major was a bit surprised to see a bush sobbing. 'Strange things happen in this hotel!' thought he.

Once had had recovered himself, Basil meet Nathan again. 'You have any joy?'

'No, I did think of the correct result but not the score. I was bold but not bold enough. I went for 3-1 exact. Had I thought of adding a bet with Germany to go through I might yet have won. I had a feeling this one might go for penalties actually. But it didn't. I didn't check that. Hmmmmph. So much for being clever, eh?'

Nathan was later left on his own with the Major. 'I'm off to Plymouth tomorrow. Let's hope I can find a hotel better than this one. That all-coast one looks good.

The Major looked at Nathan with a little scorn in his old eyes. 'I'm a bit disappointed, young man.'

'Why's that?'

'I thought you had a bit of originality and drive about you. But you tell me that you would prefer to spend time in what is a hotel equivalent of a burger chain. Those all-coast ones pop up everywhere don't they? All very welcoming all false smiles, but all the same. They have the personality of one of their breakfasts. Speaking of which, try asking for something off their set menu. They go potty. This place is more fun at times.'

This was slightly confirmed as Manuel ran through the bar followed by Basil crying, 'I'm going to get you, you little... European!'

Then by Polly saying, 'Basil, Basil, it wasn't his fault!'

Nathan thought the Major might have a point.

Epilogue

Two weeks later Basil bumped into Stephen Norty again in the hotel. He hadn't seen the annoying git for a while. 'Thought you'd left,' said he.

'No, no, though we have done all of our filming. Just popped back for a few final touches. We have enough material here to make the documentary a roaring success in the ratings.' Even Norty didn't look convinced here. 'You'll be sure to be watching, won't you?' he said, totally oblivious to all of the insults Basil had thrown in his direction in the past couple of weeks.

'You are going to need everyone you can get, seeing as it will be shown on, what was it, "Channel 5 plus 2?"'

'Your lovely lady wife will be watching!' argued Norty.

'Well that's even more reason not to watch the bloody thing,' Basil muttered.

Meantime, Sybil even stopped talking on her beloved mobile to wave at Mr. Norty. 'Oh, yes, I will be watching. I've even made a note of the time, 4:30 Monday afternoon. Absolutely prime-time schedule this program was not going to be put out on!

'Actually, you won't be!'

'Yes, I will!'

'No you won't.'

'Will.'

'Won't.'

'Will.'

'Won't!'

Decades of married life must bring out this type of intellectual conversation!

'Will! And why not?'

'Because, my little armchair critique of treasure, it will be on opposite, "Cooking by Celebs," and I know for a fact that you would rather put your head in a bucket of raw fish than miss a moment of that classic in the programming schedules!' Basil moved over to the bar. So he missed Mr. Norty leaving, though Sybil watches star-struck. Polly was nowhere to be seen. Washing her hair, probably! Basil took out a glass and poured some Whiskey into it.

Manuel came in in a Spanish football shirt looking happy and singing, 'Ole, ole, ole, we win!'

'Oh, yes! You Spanish just won the World Cup. Congratulations. Not that it was the most exciting game of all time,' Basil said, referring to the rather bad-tempered 1-0 win over Holland.

'No matter, we win, we play good football, you English did well,'

'Did we?' said Basil, not thinking they had.

'As the referee,' laughed Manuel. Months of jokes against his nation made the jibe against England irresistible. And commenting upon the irony that the only Englishman to emerge with any credit at all from the tournament was the English referee.

'Anyway, you're leaving soon aren't you?'

'Si, using my experience here, and skill in English, to work in Tenerife with my uncle. I will be able to talk to any English tourists we get in Playa De Las Americas. It's a little English pub called the Honey pot. I will be doing same job as here in some ways. Multi-lingy, languy, multi... whatever it is! Anyway, you, your lovely wife and any of my friends can stay for a cheap holiday.'

'As long as you don't have to speak to anyone English,' thought Basil.

Still,' that sounded promising, a free holiday.

'10% off for former Employers.' Manuel wasn't that stupid. Or maybe Basil had taught him something about business. Still, it did sound a good deal, Basil might take that up. 'Ole, ole, ole, Espania,' sang Manuel and Basil smiled as he watched Manuel dance away.

The End


End file.
